


Mistletoe and Wine

by Thilien



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Advent Calendar Drabble, Christmas Fluff, Ficlet, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mistletoe, Prompt Fic, So Soft It's Practically A Blanket, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thilien/pseuds/Thilien
Summary: Prompt fill as part of Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables.A tree, lights, holly, mulled wine, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Aziraphale wants to fulfill all of the Christmas traditions. But there's one very old one that he's missed - and there's no way a certain demon will let that pass.This is tooth-rottingly fluffy and for that I make no apologies at all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559806
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	Mistletoe and Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> With thanks to Drawlight for coming up with the prompt list - and for writing wonderful GO fics that never fail to make my heart sing.
> 
> Needless to say, I don't own any of this - just borrowing and playing with it for a while. All the good stuff belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and to the marvelously talented people who bought the book to life so wonderfully for us all.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated x

**Mistletoe and Wine**

Aziraphale is putting the final touches to the decorations when Crowley arrives. 

The demon has apparently made a concession to the bitter cold outside with the addition of a sharply tailored winter coat, but is rubbing warmth back into frozen fingers as he saunters through the door having failed to condescend to the concept of gloves. He does, however, have the thin and elegant wine red scarf Aziraphale so carefully selected for him last week wrapped around his neck. 

As he shrugs off his coat and gently unwinds the scarf, Crowley takes in the changes Aziraphale has wrought to the bookshop in his absence.

“It looks like a Dickens novel in here angel”

Aziraphale looks around at the result of his handiwork. He’s decorated the old-fashioned way, with not a miracle in sight. For all the significance of this oldest of festivals, Heaven had never really gone in for Christmas. Beyond that very first one at any rate. Celebrations were a human tradition and Aziraphale had always suspected that, were he to embrace any of humanity’s more frivolous customs - decorating, gift-giving and the like - he’d have been accused of going fully native by his superiors. Now that he no longer has to worry about them, however, he intends to embrace every festive tradition going. 

As a result, he’s gone to town on the decorations. A corner of the shop has been cleared of its book stacks to make room for a small but perfectly proportioned tree, laden with baubles and glittering white lights. Holly garlands the windows, berries red against the snow covered glass, and more lights twinkle from along the top of the bookcases. The smell of pine and freshly roasted chestnuts wafts throughout the room. 

Carols drift across from the record player Crowley insisted that he get - the one that plays all his old vinyl but can, through some genius of technology that Aziraphale cannot comprehend, also play the music Crowley stores on his phone. 

Having deposited his coat and scarf on the coat rack, Crowley wanders over to inspect the tree. At the sight of the laden branches, he raises an eyebrow, a glint of warm yellow eyes appearing over his sunglasses. 

“Could you have fitted any more decorations on it do you think?”

Last year Aziraphale would have bristled at the demon’s gentle teasing. Made a show of not rising to it. Then another show of gently giving in. That slow dance of theirs, familiar as a waltz. One step forward, one to the side, one back. Always dancing around the real issue. 

But then last year, he reminds himself, there wouldn’t have been a tree.

“Oh, I think there’s room for one or two more,” he says, smiling, reaching out to take hold of the wine bottle that Crowley proffers, the one the demon ventured out into the snowy evening to fetch. Because, much as he loves getting into the spirit of the season, even Aziraphale has to agree that it would be, as Crowley had so elegantly put it, a “waste of bloody good wine” to mull anything from his carefully curated cellar. 

By the time Aziraphale returns with two full mugs, the scent of spices wafting up from the carefully simmered wine, Crowley has switched the music to a more contemporary selection of Christmas songs. Aziraphale doesn’t mind. As Crowley himself had once pointed out, celestial harmonies had never really been the demon’s idea of good music. 

In Aziraphale’s absence the demon has settled himself on the edge of one of the small tables, legs crossed at the ankles. He has removed his glasses and thrown his jacket over the battered sofa, shirt sleeves rolled up to elbows as he flicks idly through one of Aziraphale’s many books. The glittering lights from atop the bookshelves catch on his fire red hair. He is, Aziraphale thinks, the most beautiful thing that the angel has ever seen. 

“So,” Aziraphale ventures, handing Crowley the mulled wine, “what do you think?”

Crowley appraises the room again, yellow eyes taking it all in. The tree, the holly, the snow outside dusting the window glass, the glittering lights, the mulled wine finally warming his still cold hands (he is, after all, ever the serpent). Then he turns back to Aziraphale with a sly smile and mischief in his eyes.

“It’s _almost_ perfect angel”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Almost?”

“Yup,” Crowley replies, popping the ‘p’ with a grin. “I’ll give credit where it’s due angel, you’ve ticked off nearly every tradition…”

The demon takes a sip of his wine before setting his cup down on the table and leaning in, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale.

“...but I think there’s an important one you forgot.”

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s eyes upwards. Above them, suspended from a hook that Aziraphale doesn’t remember ever being there, is a sprig of mistletoe laden with white berries.

“You old sop.”

Crowley grins and leans in further, his breath soft against Aziraphale’s cheek. Carefully, he removes the wine glass from Aziraphale’s hand, setting it down next to his own. 

“You love it though.”

“I love you.”

They are so close that Aziraphale can hear the slight hitch in Crowley’s breath before the demon tilts his head down to bring their lips together. The kiss is soft and warm and as full of infinite promise as the one they shared all those months ago, the day after the world didn’t end, and it is filled with the memory of all the kisses they’ve shared since then. 

“You know,” Crowley says after they’ve broken apart, his voice heavy with that low roughness that always sends heat racing through Aziraphale’s body, “tradition says you’re supposed to keep kissing until you run out of berries…”

Aziraphale glances upwards. The mistletoe bough hanging above them is laden with perfect white pearls.

“Well,” he says, winding his fingers into the soft curls at the nape of Crowley’s neck and relishing the sharp intake of breath that this provokes from the demon, “I suppose if it’s tradition…”


End file.
